


Defenseless

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMMwhumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-09 07:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16445309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Phryne squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to figure out what had happened—it wasn’t like her to overindulge to the point of ending up in compromising positions. Well, not this sort of compromising, at least. And besides, she remembered with sudden clarity, the only place she’d intended to end up the night before was Jack Robinson’s bed. Between the mildew, the cold, and the obvious lack of a fellow body in this—she presumed—bed, she had a sinking suspicion that such an event had not transpired.Dinner plans go awry once again.  For the whumptober prompt "Kidnapped"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Back in JANUARY, whopooh gave me the amazing prompt: "Jack and Phryne are taken by villans clever enough to not put them in the same cellar room. They can talk through the wall. Then there is a scream and silence" and I promptly freaked myself out over trying to make a fic as good as the ideas the prompt itself conjured. And while I'm not sure I achieved it, it fit the Whumptober prompt 'kidnapped' so well that I had to try.

It was the smell that hit her first, a sort of pervasively damp must making her cough, sending sharp, bright spikes of pain through her head. Phryne squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to figure out what had happened—it wasn’t like her to overindulge to the point of ending up in compromising positions. Well, not this sort of compromising, at least. And besides, she remembered with sudden clarity, the only place she’d intended to end up the night before was Jack Robinson’s bed. Between the mildew, the cold, and the obvious lack of a fellow body in this—she presumed—bed, she had a sinking suspicion that such an event had not transpired. Bracing herself for another blinding pain, she opened her eyes.

Bugger, bugger, shit. She closed her eyes again.

Right, so this clearly wasn’t an adventure gone awry. Her stomach churned, bile burning her throat. She flexed her hands and then her feet—she wasn’t bound, at least. That was a start. She could work with that. She opened her eyes again, attempting to take stock of what seemed to be a small room—wood and plaster walls, crumbling but too thick to go through; one small, circular window with grubby daylight shining through, too high and too small to be of much use beyond illumination. One bed, which she was currently on, heavy metal frame, straw mattress, thin sheet of scratchy wool. No other furniture. One door, looking suspiciously newer and stronger than the state of the room would otherwise suggest. 

What the hell had happened?

The throbbing of her head left her with more questions than answers, and a vague impression of… anticipation? She’d been… flying home from London, and stopped in Sydney to visit Jane. Had something… no, she remembered taking off from Sydney, Jane in the passenger seat, and besides, her thin gown was far from suitable for flying. Right, dinner, Jack, there’d been plans made… the thought was gone again, the pulse in her head making her eyes throb in pain. She closed her eyes.

There was a noise, distant and low. People. Possibly rescue, possibly her captors—Phryne struggled upright, the pain her head having abated somewhat (had she fallen asleep? How much time had passed?), looking around the room for some sort of defensive weapon. Likely an exercise in futility, given her difficulties in sitting, but damn if she’d go willingly.

The voices were coming through the nearest wall; Phryne leant closer, trying to make out the words. Any information she could glean was more than she currently had.

“Eat.”

Firm voice, rough, slight accent she couldn’t place with the distortion. Sounded like a command, suggesting… another prisoner? Alright, that added another layer of complication to escape, but—

“Did you spit in it this time, McCoy?”

No distortion could obscure that voice, and an image came to her—Jack’s house, Phryne’s surprise when there were no lights to greet her. They’d spoken the night before she’d left Sydney, confirming their dinner plans. Perhaps he’d been delayed by work—it had been his day off, though that had never deterred him before—but it seemed unlike him not to telephone. She’d gone to the door and… the memory was gone again, slipping further away the tighter she grasped at it. Whatever it was, it clearly hadn’t ended well. 

Right. Well, that could—if she could get his attention—increase their chances of escape. Not quite the reunion she’d hoped for, but she could think of noone better to have her back. She just had to keep her head straight until they could figure it out.

The man, McCoy, was still talking—she couldn’t make out his words, but his tone was… unsettling. Cold, distant, but not disinterested. Anger would be better. Anger could be pushed, exploited. But there would be other angles. Jack knew him, which meant it was likely related to a case; she couldn’t recall a McCoy, which meant it was possibly one that had happened while she’d been away. One of Jack’s letters had mentioned— A particularly painful throb from her head derailed the thought. Still, that was a start. 

She looked around the room once more, deciding then and there that whether it was for a case or for dinner, she was no longer interacting with Jack Robinson without, at the very least, her lockpick. The sudden thought of his face as he uncovered it secreted in her decolletage or her garter made her smile despite their predicament. They’d get out, and then she’d see how close her imagination was to the real thing.

From outside the door there was a noise—clearly it was time for McCoy to introduce himself. With no weapons to hand, she had a split second to make a decision: she dropped her anger, tried to appear cowed. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, made worse by the knowledge that with her throbbing head it wasn’t entirely pretense, but her best bet of escaping was in the other room, and he didn’t know she was there. The sooner she got McCoy away, the sooner that could be remedied. The door swung open.

McCoy was well over six foot, and nearly the same across the shoulders. Definitely not someone she recalled coming across. Fighting her way out would be extremely difficult, and she sent a quick prayer of thanks to the universe for her decision to appear weak. 

“Yer awake,” the man said; up close, she recognised the accent as nearly-obliterated Irish. 

“Who are ya?” she asked, her voice not quite Collingwood but not quite the cut glass perfection of her usual speech either and full of false bravado. “And what am I doing here?”

The man laughed, revealing straight white teeth that seemed almost unnatural in these grubby surroundings. He was carrying a plate in one hand. That was good. Food meant he didn’t want her dead, at least not yet.

“Yer the copper’s whore, and we don’t take kindly to coppers round these parts.”

She spat at him, flinching as he stepped forward and raised his hand to strike her. He laughed instead.

“Pretty thing like you could do better than that jack,” he said.

“I suppose you _abducted_ me to prove your point?” she spat out, biting her tongue instantly. She had to play the game, bide her time. There was too much riding on this to let her temper get the best of her. 

“Oh no,” McCoy said, shoving the plate towards her, “that was simply bad luck. Now eat.”

It was a sandwich, dry bread and grey meat; she took a bite, realising how hungry she was. A day of flying, then no dinner… she finished the plate and met McCoy’s eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, hoping she looked contrite and hoping even more that the food hadn’t been laced with something. She really was not on the top of her game. 

McCoy took the plate back without replying, scowling as he turned and left the room; Phryne heard the click of the lock on the heavy door and took a deep breath. Footsteps faded away—down stairs, she thought, making the solitary window of the room an even less likely escape—and she turned to the wall at the head of the bed, the one shared with Jack’s room.

She knocked on it twice, then whispered his name as loud as she dared. Thank goodness the walls were not stone; a second later she heard a returning knock, and a hoarse “Miss Fisher.”

“Hello, Jack,” she said, unable to hide the relief in her voice. “Care to fill me in?”

She could practically feel his frustration emanating through the wall.

“Frank McCoy. Part of a Sydney gang attempting to make headway in Melbourne.” Right, she remembered the mention in Jack’s letter, vague though it had been. “I’ve been heading the investigation, and now he wants information. Or the man who pays his salary does, and I still don’t know who that is.”

“Frustrating.”

He scoffed a laugh. “You have no idea, Miss Fisher. I had half a hope you’d notice me missing and raise the alarm.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the crumbling plaster, head still swimming.

“He must have returned to your house for something,” Phryne said. “Case files?”

“I didn’t keep them there.”

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t looking. But that’s good—if you have something he wants, he won’t hurt us. Not badly.”

Jack didn’t reply immediately, and a spike of fear went through her. Jack wouldn’t compromise an investigation for his own skin. Not easily, at least. But her presence would complicate things.

“Jack?”

“Just thinking, Miss Fisher. What are you wearing?”

She snorted, causing more blinding pain.

“A darling little dress I’d hoped you’d be removing.”

“No whale boning, then?”

“While sartorial advances have done much good, Jack, they have also reduced the chances of impromptu lockpicks.”

“Damn.” A pause. “What about your room?”

“Nothing,” Phryne said. “But I promised Jane I would take her to lunch. She’ll rally the troops when I don’t get home. We just have to hold out until they find us.”

More silence. She wondered whether she could claw the plaster down, because something wasn’t right. 

“McCoy doesn’t know who you are,” Jack finally said. “Most likely, at least. He doesn’t strike me as the type to read society pages, and you were gone from Melbourne before he arrived.”

“And?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, Miss Fisher, but let him underestimate you.”

“Simper and flirt and hope he takes pity on me, you mean?”

“I’m not—Miss Fisher, of the two of us, you’re the one most likely to escape. I’d like to keep it that way, mostly because I’d appreciate you making it back here to rescue me.”

“I’m not going without you,” she protested; she knew he was right, thinking tactically, knew he’d never be released, but damn if she’d leave him in the path of that brute. His response was so quietly resigned that she almost didn’t hear it.

“We both know that’s not true, Miss Fisher.”

“Jack…” she fought back tears; no two-bit bastard was going to break her. “What are you wearing, inspector?”

His chuckle was not a happy sound, under the circumstances.

“No whaleboning here either,” he said. “He grabbed me on the way home from the station.”

She imagined Jack as she’d last seen him; it quickly morphed to Jack injured, Jack dead, dirty and bloody and broken in the pursuit of information. She couldn’t dwell on that, pushed it deep down and took a deep breath. They would get through this. They just needed more time.

“Shame that,” she said, aiming for light, “I was looking forward to our dinner.” 

“So was I, Miss Fisher.”

She stifled a sob into her fist, pushed it down.

“What were you cooking?” she asked, desperate to hear his voice, trying not to dwell. So long as they were talking, they weren’t defeated. 

“Lamb. Potatoes. Carrots,” he said. “Hardly in the realm of Mr Butler, but…” 

His voice trailed off, and Phryne wondered how much of the hoarseness in his voice was the whispers. Not as much as she’d hoped, she knew; McCoy had had Jack for close to a full day before he’d taken her, and Jack had the information he wanted. 

“Jack?”

“I’m here, Miss Fisher. Perhaps you’d talk awhile?”

She wasn’t going to cry, and she wasn’t going to be defeated. And she sure as shit was not going to let Frank McCoy touch another hair on Jack Robinson’s head.

“Of course, Jack,” she said softly. “Did I ever tell you about the incident in Cairo?”


	2. Chapter 2

She wasn’t entirely certain how much time passed; she told him about her journey home, the people she’d met and the things she’d seen and all the experiences she’d wanted to share with him. Light and airy and entertaining, carefully skirting the darker moments.

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t get the time off,” he said, sounding exhausted.

“Next time.”

It was meant as a promise, but it felt more like a desperate plea. And when Jack didn’t immediately reply, she wasn’t entirely convinced the universe would be that kind.

“Jack?” she whispered frantically. “How serious…”

“We just need to wait for Jane,” he said, as if she couldn’t see the evasiveness from the other room. “I’m sorry, I haven’t slept since… just keep talking?”

The throbbing in her head had abated to a dull ache, but it meant that the roiling fear in her gut was harder to ignore. She stood, pacing around the room once more in hopes of discovering some overlooked detail, but found nothing. The sunlight through the window had faded somewhat, the first hint of the approaching night. People had to be looking for them by now. They just had to hang on. She moved back to the bed.

“Jack?”

“Still here, Miss Fisher,” he said, the dryness of his delivery making him sound almost like himself. “Not sure where else I would be.”

A heavy lump pushed its way into her throat; she swallowed hard against it.

“When we’re done here,” she said decisively, “we’re going to the Windsor. Largest suite. And we will soak in the bath and then sleep for three days straight, and if we’re truly ambitious we’ll order food to be delivered.”

“Are you implying our current accommodations are lacking? I for one appreciate the suspicious damp patch taking up half the wall. It’s remarkably reminiscent of an outline of Italy.”

She choked on her laughter, tears springing to her eyes once more.

“At least you have some cartography to admire,” she said. “No damp here, just the smell.”

His chuckle was followed by a cough, and Phryne pressed herself against the wall the best she could, as if she could lend him some of her strength. Before she could say anything more—and what was there to say, really, when they were both pretending they didn’t know how this would end?—there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, singular and measured. 

Not rescue.

The noise seemed to rouse Jack somewhat, because his voice was adamant as it came through the wall.

“Phryne! Phryne, I was serious. If you can get out, you need to get out. Please. It’s your—our best chance.”

“Jack—”

“Promise me.”

Like hell she would.

Before she could reply, she heard the steps stop in front of her door. In a split second she weighed her options—she didn’t know anything, but McCoy wouldn’t know that. Perhaps she could offer herself, bluff her way through, buy them time. They just needed more time. But as quickly as she considered it, it was discarded. Jack knew the circumstances better than she did, and she had to trust his judgment. It didn’t mean she had any intention of making a habit of compliance, and she hoped she’d have a chance to prove it. Shrinking into herself, she tensed her body, ready to to attack if she saw an opening.

The door opened slowly, revealing McCoy with a tin cup—so much for breaking the glass—and a plate holding another grey sandwich. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and crossing the few steps to the bed. Phryne took the food, chewing and swallowing as slowly as possible without being obvious about it.

“What will you do with me?” she asked.

McCoy shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet, ducky. Seem a shame to hurt a pretty little thing like you, but it will depend on how well yer man cooperates.” He turned towards the wall. “Hear that, inspector? You really ought to tell me the truth next time I ask.”

She’d kill him with her bare hands, and spit on his corpse when she was done. But not yet. She widened her eyes instead, let her bottom lip tremble ever-so-slightly.

“Could I… use the lavatory?” she asked; even if she couldn’t escape, it would be good to get a better sense of the building. 

McCoy shook his head. Damn.

“I’ll bring you a bucket,” he said, taking back the plate and flashing her a grin he probably intended to be charming. “I’m generous like that.”

He left the room, opening the door a moment later to stick a bucket near the door and locking it once more. Then she heard him approach and unlock Jack’s door, and she hoped Jack would eat quickly; a bucket was a weapon of sorts, and once McCoy was gone they could figure something out. They just needed to hang on. 

McCoy, it seemed, had other plans. 

“Up, inspector!” he ordered, clear as day, followed by the sound of Jack being hauled to his feet. 

Phryne flew to the door and began to pound on it, all thoughts of plays and pretense gone in a moment.

“Ask me!” she shouted. “He told me everything, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

McCoy laughed, and the sound chilled her. He sounded genuinely amused.

“She’s a firebrand, that one, don’t you think, inspector?” he said. “I suppose I could talk to her… once I’m done with you.”

Forget her bare hands, the next time she saw McCoy she’d rip his throat out with her teeth. 

She heard the sounds of Jack being manhandled out of the room and down the stairs, and she sagged against the door, the wood too heavy to get through. The room seemed suddenly quiet.

Her panicked focus was slipping, leaving nothing but blind fear in its wake. He’d hurt Jack until Jack gave in. Everyone would give in eventually. And once McCoy had what he needed, there was nothing keeping either of them alive.

She had to find a way out. She scoured the room yet again, looking for something, _anything_ , that could be useful. Voices drifted up the stairs—McCoy demanding and Jack refusing to give in—and even the sharp sound of flesh on flesh. She couldn’t make out the details, but her imagination was more than sufficient to sketch in the blank spaces. Frantic, she attempted to reach the window, if only to yell out of it, but it was too high; attempted to disassemble the bed frame, but found the nuts too tight for her bare hands; threw her entire weight against the door, with nothing to show for it but a sore shoulder. She had to find a way out.

A single scream rent the air, followed by silence. 

She retched into the bucket.

———

She remembered very little in the next half hour; shortly after the ominous silence, she’d heard McCoy hauling Jack’s—hauling Jack back into the room, muttering something about the Yarra. She braced herself for her turn, grasping the bucket and standing near the door in hopes of taking him by surprise, but McCoy went back downstairs without saying a word to her. That was… that was bad. But he had locked the door, which meant that Jack wasn’t dead. Not yet. Even if he didn’t respond to her calls. He was alive. He had to be alive. And maybe he hadn’t… maybe he wasn’t broken, maybe they’d be alright. She had to believe they’d be alright. They just needed more time.

She slumped against the wall shared with Jack, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them. They would be alright. Her ears strained for any hint of life from the other room—she thought she caught a low moan at one point, but it wasn’t repeated and she could not rule out wishful thinking. 

The beading on her dress pressed against her forehead, and she imagined the image she made in that moment, crumpled on a dirty floor in an evening gown. She tried to remember the hopefulness of the previous night, the elation at the prospect of an uninterrupted dinner, the way she’d chosen her dress so carefully—something that made her feel beautiful, that would not stand out too much in Jack’s neighbourhood, that was easily removed. The way she’d planned to tease and flirt and trust him to read between the lines about how much she’d missed him during her journey. It all seemed childish now. 

_Come back to me, Jack Robinson._

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t recognise the sounds of rescue at first. Footsteps, shouts, the door to Jack’s room opening; she sat, frozen, not even thinking to alert people to her situation as she waited for a confirmation Jack was alive. He had to be alive. More shouting, but the blood pounding in her ears, the tightness in her chest, the desperate need for answers made it nothing but noise. Just noise. 

_Come back to me, Jack Robinson._

“Miss Fisher?”

The sound of her name startled her out of her panicked mantra.

“Here, Hugh!” she called. 

The door opened, revealing Hugh Collins on the other side, his expression a mixture of rage and worry. Phryne stood up, brushing a hand over her dress as if this was nothing, a minor inconvenience, a sartorial offense but nothing more.

“Jack?” she asked. Her voice was flat, determined not to break. 

Hugh blinked twice. It didn't matter. She pushed past him and into the corridor, giving a soft cry when she saw the coat discarded against the wall, the blood on it dried to a dark brown. 

“They’ve taken him down to the ambulance,” Hugh said from behind her. “He looked…”

Phryne’s mother had always said that she ran towards trouble, always had; she’d never quite been able to explain, as a child, that if she confronted her fear, she could defeat it, rather than cower in the face of what-might-be. Her feet barely touched the stairs as she flew down them, past constables and criminal and an open doorway to a room with a single chair and a dark stain beneath, and onto the narrow street. The air was close, humid and cloying, and the ambulance was several buildings away. She saw the driver loading the stretcher into the van, a familiar form on it, and ran faster. 

The first thing she noticed as she drew closer was the blood.

The second was that Jack was awake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating. There might be a smutty epilogue for this on Friday, but I just has a wisdom tooth extracted and I don't want to make any promises. This is also my excuse for any typos. I'm afraid this chapter is pure sugary fluff rather than any decent whump.

_He was alive_. The seconds afterwards seemed suspended; her feet moved faster, her heart thudded and pounded and threatened to fly before her, to him, his name stuck in her throat. He heard her approach, because he looked towards her and even from steps away—how was she still steps away, she’d been running for years?—she could read the relief on his features. It loosened her voice.

“Jack!”

She scrambled past the protesting ambulance driver into the van, reaching out and then hesitating, her hand hovering in the air over his body. Blood from a gash on his temple caked one side of his face and the collar of his shirt, his breathing was shallow and pained, one eye was blackened, a lip split, his clothes filthy and rumpled and no doubt hiding more injuries.

“Oh, Jack,” she breathed.

“Nice dress,” he rasped, though she knew his careful examination of her body was more to catalogue her own injuries than prurient intent.

Her eyes closed, hot tears leaking from them quite against her will. She felt his fingers wrap around hers, solid and warm.

“I thought you were dead,” she admitted, eyes still shut. Saying it filled her entire body with cold, even though he was obviously not.

“And miss a chance to stay at the Windsor?” he asked, all warmth and teasing and steadiness despite the shortness of his breath. “Never.” 

She opened her eyes; he was still watching her, and for all the lightness in his voice, his expression said something different. Fear and relief and pain, so much pain, lurked beneath the surface; her fingers squeezed his.

“You need to get to hospital,” she said decisively, turning for the first time to look at the ambulance driver, who was watching the situation before him with vague confusion. “Go on, then.”

“You’ll need to leave, miss,” the man said, his expression confused.

“I won’t.” Phryne set her jaw.

“I cannot—”

“Of course you can,” Phryne said, already marshalling her arguments. 

“There’s no point arguing with her,” Jack chimed in before she could begin. “And she’s trained as a nurse. You’ll tell her she cannot ride with me, she’ll refuse—again—to leave, eventually you’ll concede so long as she promises not to interfere… I find I’d really like some laudanum, so if we can skip the argument and get me to the hospital, I’d appreciate it.”

The driver shook his head, then closed the van doors. Jack looked at her, a trace of amusement in his eyes.

“You need to see a doctor too,” he said. “At least this way I know you’ll get there.”

“I feel distinctly managed right now,” Phryne huffed, reaching out with her free hand to run her fingers down his cheek. “But as it gets me exactly what I want, I’ll try to forgive you.”

As the ambulance engine roared to life and the van began to move, Jack closed his eyes. He was clearly exhausted and in pain, but he was alive. Wonderfully, gloriously alive. They rode without speaking, hands still clasped; she studied his features, drinking him in for the first time in months, watching every furrow of his brow, every painful rise of his chest, every twitch of his lips as if she could commit him to memory through sheer force of will. 

“You kept me alive,” he said after several minutes. “When McCoy… I thought I would die.”

It didn’t bear thinking of. But she knew what a confession like that would cost him, and neither of them would want to dwell. 

“And then you realised that I’m too wonderful to leave behind?” she teased.

A smile twitched at the corners of his lips.

“I was more concerned what you’d do to me if I did.”

She gave a small laugh, then bent over to softly press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Lucky for you you didn’t try,” she said. The van hit a bump and he groaned, and Phryne squeezed his hand again. “But we can discuss that later. We’ll have the time.”

His body relaxed, his breath evening out, and by the time they arrived at the hospital he’d fallen asleep. She touched him from time to time—a squeeze of the hand she hadn’t released, a brush of his shoulder, anything to merit a response—to reassure herself that it _was_ sleep, uncertain what she’d do if he slipped into unconsciousness. Internal injuries could be insidious like that. 

He woke again as the stretcher was lowered from the van, and Phryne walked alongside, hand still on his and keeping pace with his head as they entered the hospital; a matron opened her mouth to protest, but Phryne quelled her with a look. She imagined her lack of sartorial elegance didn’t hurt matters. When they reached an examination room, she gave him a small smile.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked. “This next bit won’t be particularly fun.”

She didn’t want to leave. She was not the sort to sit and pine by a bedside, and quite frankly she’d had enough of medical treatments in the war, but the idea of taking a single step away, of losing that connection for even a moment… it would pass, she knew, she was far too independent for it not to, but for now it filled her with an unsettling fear. She could leave and he could be in pain. Need surgery. He could die and she wouldn’t know, wouldn’t be there. Thankfully, Jack seemed to understand, because he gave her a look and gripped her hand tighter. 

“Trying to make your escape, Miss Fisher?”

“Not at all,” she said, hoping her smile said everything her words did not. “I don’t believe in running from things that scare me.”

———

Jack’s litany of injuries was long—broken ribs, heavy contusions and bruising, minor concussion—but far less serious than it could have been. He snorted at the doctor’s prognosis, saying that McCoy might not know how to do real damage but he could land a blow just fine; Phryne clicked her tongue in admonishment and tried not to fuss. He was ordered to take a few days in hospital for observation and to better manage his medication, but was expected to make a full recovery. Providing, the doctor admonished, he actually rested. Phryne chose to ignore the rather rude look the doctor shot her as he said so, and when he left she huffed and threw herself into the visitor’s chair, her hand still holding Jack’s.

“I don’t know why he was looking at me,” she grumbled.

“Perhaps he could sense your proclivity for trouble, Miss Fisher.”

She attempted to glare, but the mischievous look in his eyes was hard to resist. “For once, Jack, this is entirely on you. I had planned for a quiet dinner.”

“ _Just_ a quiet dinner?” 

She grinned. “It depended on how agreeable you were.”

His thumb stroked the back of her hand absently.

“When it comes to you, Miss Fisher, I find myself remarkably agreeable more often than not.”

“Liar.”

They lapsed into silence, familiar and comfortable. The laudanum eventually took full effect and Jack began to doze, waking when other people arrived. There seemed to be a steady stream of professionals in and out, and several police officers checking on their inspector. When the first constable arrived, Phryne went to pull her hand back, mindful of Jack’s reputation, but he kept his own hold steady. Well, if he didn’t mind then she certainly didn’t, and she looked towards the constable as if daring him to say a word. 

He didn’t, wisely opting to update them on the investigation. McCoy was in custody, they could thank Miss Ross and Jack’s meticulous notes for their relatively quick rescue, the commissioner was ordering Jack to take at least two weeks of medical leave (Jack made a noise of protest at that and Phryne not-at-all subtly suggested there were plenty of ways to fill that time, and besides the doctor might have something to say about his dedication to the job), and that all of City South was thankful that he—both of them, the constable amended with a small blush—were alive and well. 

It was gone midnight when Phryne—with her own clean bill of health delivered by a nurse Jack had charmed into the examination—left him to sleep. Which, admittedly, was mostly orchestrated by a very firm looking Dot Collins arriving with a pair of pyjamas for Jack—“Much nicer than those hospital ones,” she announced, and Phryne did not even try to imagine where Dot had conjured them from—and a coat for Phryne. 

“A pillow would have been better, Dot,” Phryne said. “If I’m to spend the night in the chair—”

“You’ll do no such thing, miss,” Dot said. “The inspector no doubt wants his sleep, and you need a hot bath and your own bed. And poor Jane is beside herself with worry.”

And while Phryne would have happily argued against the first two points, the third was not so easily ignored. So she said her farewells and promised to be back in the morning, her hand trailing away from his at the last possible moment. It was a matter of pride that she only looked back the once. 

———

She was back at the hospital by 8 o’clock, a rising so uncharacteristically early that Jack raised an eyebrow at her arrival.

“It was lovely to be home,” Phryne said, giving a small shrug, “but perhaps less lovely to be alone while trying to sleep.” She lifted the basket Mr Butler had so carefully packed. “And I thought a man with such a prodigious appetite might appreciate more than hospital fare.”

“I’m not entirely certain how much I’ll be eating,” he said, sitting up with a wince. Which would have concerned Phryne much more if he wasn’t already eyeing the basket with an all-too-familiar glean; surely he’d be able to work himself up to the task.

She moved around the bed, setting the basket on the bedside table and taking up residence once more in the visitor’s chair, propping her feet on the edge of the bed. 

“When was your last dose of laudanum?” she asked, attempting to assess the severity of his pain.

“Have you added medical doctor to your long list of accomplishments, then?” he replied, the familiar downwards tilt of his lips indicating his amusement. “I’d have thought you’d have left that in the capable hands of Doctor MacMillan.”

She huffed. “Don’t think I haven’t tried. Apparently she requires permission to practice medicine in another hospital, and the administrator isn’t in for another hour. And _apparently_ my suggestion that we move you to her hospital is ‘unnecessary’ and ‘headstrong’, which just goes to show how good a friend she is.”

“Oh yes,” said Jack dryly. “It’s terribly inconsiderate of her.”

Phryne shot him a dirty look and leant forward to flip open the basket top.

“Omelette, Jack?” she asked pointedly.

He gave her a smile, warm and open and wonderful; she forgot what little irritation she felt. “Well, if you insist.”

The day passed companionably—at various times one or the other slept, examinations were conducted and medications dispensed, Mac arrived and looked over his chart enough to declare his care ‘competent, and I’d advise against moving him right now Phryne, so please don’t ask again’, visitors were welcomed and entertained until Jack seemed tired and Phryne sweetly and adeptly pushed them out the door. A draughts board was even procured from one of the sisters, who seemed to have developed a soft spot for the policeman and his guard. 

It was early and Phryne was resetting the game when Jack laid his hand on hers, solid and real and warm; she looked up and saw the concern in his eyes.

“You don’t need to stay with me, Miss Fisher.”

“Well, I’ve just about convinced myself that you won’t disappear again, so I don’t expect to make a habit of it, Jack,” she said. “But right now I’d really like to keep you in my sight.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement and helped her finish laying the pieces. Then he thoroughly trumped her twice, putting them on equal wins.

“For pride?” Jack asked, gesturing towards the board as if to ask whether he should lay it again.

Phryne glanced at the clock on the wall, and gave a small smile. 

“I believe it is almost time for dinner,” she said. “Let me see if Dot’s arrived.”

Sweeping out into the corridor, she found her friend coming down the hall.

“Did you get everything?” Phryne asked quietly, taking the basket.

“All but the candles, miss. The matron says no open flames on the wards.”

Phryne clicked her tongue, wishing she didn’t feel quite so disappointed by that. It was a silly, sentimental thing. 

“I put in a torch?” Dot said. 

Well, it would have to do. A modern convenience for a modern relationship, by necessity. And there’d be other opportunities for candles, Phryne was certain. She kissed Dot on the cheek and told her she’d be home in a few hours, then swept back into the room where Jack was lying.

“Here we are, Jack,” she said brightly. “We missed our dinner, but I don’t see any reason we have to wait until you’re released from hospital to remedy that.”

He beamed at her.

“No reason at all, Miss Fisher. No reason at all.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, not PFF but the spirit is there. And at least I completed something. A not-polished something, but...

Phryne looked in the mirror, adjusting her hair piece and smiling slightly. 

It had been several weeks since their… ordeal. She still tried not to think how close they had been to a far more tragic outcome—McCoy had been dispatched back to Sydney to face more serious charges, Jack had been discharged from hospital after only a few days, they had seen each other several times and spoken even most days, and for the most part she was satisfied with it all. Sometimes the memories hovered over her, the memory of utter helplessness a feeling she’d long fought to never feel again, but for the most part she was satisfied. And by the end of the night, she fully expected to be well-and-truly _satisfied_.

A familiar knock reached her, and she left the bedroom to cross the suite and answer the door. Her hand paused on the handle and she took a deep breath, never more certain in her life about what lay on the other side.

“Jack!”

He was in a suit and tie—the first time she’d seen him in his usual apparel since her return, she realised, and she had to blink back tears. It had been wonderful to see him in more casual clothing on their visits since his release, but this… this was the Jack she knew best.

He inclined his head slightly and stepped through the door carrying a small bag. “Miss Fisher.”

“Now Jack,” she simpered, brushing his hand as she relieved him of the bag, “if you’re going to come into my hotel room when I’m all alone, the least you can do is call me Phryne.”

He rolled his eyes, moving past her to hang his hat and coat and step into the suite properly. She watched him look over the room, taking it in with his usual thoughtful curiosity.

“It’s not too much, I hope,” she said as she set his luggage aside, trying to be more coy than concerned. “I did promise the Windsor.”

He turned to look at her, the mischief in his expression setting a tug low in her belly.

“There is an appalling lack of damp,” he said with a shrug, “but given the company, I’m sure I can overlook it.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes.

“Do try to bear up under the disappointment,” she said dryly, stepping into his space and tilting her head up slightly, waiting for him to take action. There had been no illusion of what her invitation had meant, nor his acceptance, but… 

His hand reached up to cup her head and he kissed her; sweet and firm and utterly, _utterly_ delicious. She parted her mouth, deepened their connection, slid her arms to rest on his waist. 

They’d intended dinner, discussion, flirtations and anticipations, but she found she didn’t have much patience for it now that he was there. In her arms. Kissing her like the devil himself. Her hands slid beneath his suit jacket, eager to divest him of it. His tie followed, flung to some distant corner. His hands fisted at her waist, tugging her dress higher, moving his fingers to stroke against her thigh; his touch was so tender that she forgot her fingers on his waistcoat, lost in the gentle sensations.

She felt the moment he’d reached her garter because he paused, then began to laugh.

“Is that your lockpick?” he asked.

“I thought it best,” she murmured, trying to hide her own amusement. “Just as a precaution.”

“Ahh.”

He kissed along her shoulder, up her neck, his lips warm and soft as he found the spot behind her ear that never failed to send shivers down her body. She wanted his skin, his secrets, his body against hers. She undid the waistcoat and tugged it off his shoulders; he groaned and flinched away. She pulled back.

“You’re not better!”

“I’m fine, Miss Fisher,” he asserted, as if she couldn’t read the utter chagrin on his face.

She crossed her arms.

“You’re not.”

“It was just a twinge. I’m sure you’re aware how much trouble ribs can be.”

“Oh, I am, Jack,” she said, a hair’s breadth from seething. “Which is why I’m not impressed you’re here, having told me that you’re fine, and risking reinjuring yourself!”

“I’m hardly at death’s door,” he said, clearly exasperated.

She flinched before she realised she would, and his face dropped.

“Phryne, I’m fine,” he said, reaching out to brush a finger against her wrist. “Truly. I did, perhaps, misjudge how sensitive that particular rib is, and I might not be up for the particularly acrobatic possibilities, but I’m _fine_.” 

She studied his face for signs of deceit, and found nothing but Jack. And she’d certainly had more ill-advised liaisons over the year.

“Fine,” she said. “But I’ll take the lead.”

“As always.”

She attempted an unamused glare. “And if it hurts, even a little, you need to tell me.”

If he lied about this, out of some misjudged pride or desire or to prove a point… if he did not trust her with something so simple, there was very little chance for them. And she wanted there to be a chance. They’d come too far not to have a chance.

He tilted his head in agreement. 

“May I kiss you, at least?”

“Jack Robinson,” she purred, carefully undoing each button of his shirt and sliding it down his arms, “I struggle to imagine any scenario in which the answer to that question isn’t yes. And I certainly hope you’ll do more than kiss. Chaise or bed?”

“Pardon?”

“Is it more comfortable for you to sit upright on the chaise—” she pointed towards it “—or would you rather go through to the bed?”

For a man who had just been kissing her so adeptly, he looked remarkably befuddled. 

“Uh, chaise. I think.”

“Marvelous.”

She sashayed towards it, feeling his eyes on her as she walked; Jack’s gaze could incinerate a woman, if she let it. Instead she undid the hidden buttons, letting the gown pool at her feet before stepping out. The sight of her lingerie stirred him into action, because he followed her, removing the last of his clothes as he did; when she turned around, it was to face a naked Jack, which Phryne quickly decided was quite possibly her favourite Jack of all. (It was, perhaps, a little galling that some part of her disagreed; an image of him at his desk, brow furrowed as he read over a case file, sprang to mind, and really there was no reason she couldn’t have more than one favourite.)

She stepped close, pressing one hand against his chest to encourage him to sit on the chaise. He did, staring up at her with a wonderment that left a strange aching joy in her chest. A woman would do a hell of a lot, for a man like that.

She removed her lingerie and then straddled his lap, her hand slipping between then to stroke his hardening cock, her tongue licking the tempting hollow of his neck. 

“Slow and close,” she promised, nibbling along one of the tendons of his throat. “And if it hurts—”

“I know.”

Holding his cock steady, Phryne rose up slightly to guide him inside, letting out a small sigh as he stretched and filled her. Kissed him softly. Began to move, slow at first, taking him deep with every thrust; he was beautiful like this, eyes closed and lips parted and his familiar features transformed by the deepest of pleasures. Sped up, not in pursuit of her own climax but in the desire to see his; ground down, for both the delicious friction and his wonderful moans. He began to thrust to meet her, the change in rhythm strange at first, but better. Faster still, the promise of pleasure coiling through her body, through his—

“Wait.”

She paused, halfway through her fall. He was panting heavily, his pupils blown wide.

“Do you want to stop?” 

His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, keeping her close. 

“No, please no. You feel… incredible. I just need to catch my breath.”

She nodded, then leant forward to press soft kisses against his cheek, his ear, his throat, her hands tangling in his hair. Tender and affectionate. Reassuring. Promising.

“Just say when,” she said quietly.

His hand stroked her spine, an easy intimacy in the touch she knew she would find. 

“When,” he rumbled after a moment, and she began to ride him again—slowly, every stroke of his cock rewarded with the clenching of muscles, the weight of her body, until they were both threatening to tumble over the edge

“Come for me, Jack,” she whispered; they would have time for more, later. Frantic sessions and slow explorations and so many pleasurable peaks, but what she wanted—what she needed—now was this. Just this. Just him.

His hand slipped between them, his fingers finding her clit and stroking softly, waiting for her response. She rocked her hips forward, desperate for more, and bit her lip. Rose up, down, up, down, her legs shaking from the imminent climax, up, down.

She came with a wail she barely recognised, quiet and relieved and raw, her forehead burying into his shoulder as he followed her over. She touched him in the aftermath; her hands, her lips, the brush of her chest against his, both sated and hungry for more. She stood, reluctantly, and took his hand. Guided him into the bedroom, encouraged him into bed, touched and kissed him.

And they slept.


End file.
